CHAPTER 343: DANCE

Just months before her tragic passing, Princess Diana personally organized the auction of 79 of her most iconic gowns at Christie’s in New York.

The event raised approximately more then $2 million, with all proceeds benefiting charities she supported—particularly those focused on AIDS research and cancer care. The idea reportedly came from her eldest son, Prince William, who encouraged her to use the dresses to support causes close to her heart.

Many of the gowns were purchased by private collectors, philanthropists, and museums. Some have since been loaned to exhibitions, while others remain in private collections—kept as investments or treasured mementos of Diana’s legacy. Over the years, several have been resold at auctions.

People increasingly recognize the symbolic power of her wardrobe. Diana’s gowns are no longer seen as mere fashion items—they are historical artifacts. This is why some owners choose to part with them, knowing their value goes far beyond fabric and design.

Christie’s Auction House, Manhattan.

The chandeliers glistened above the hushed crowd, a room filled with elegance and reverence. Rows of velvet chairs were occupied by collectors, fashion moguls, museum curators, aristocrats, and a smattering of celebrities—each waiting, paddles ready, as the auctioneer took the podium.

Dozens of Diana’s dresses were being presented one by one. Every time a mannequin in a spotlight rolled forward, whispers broke out—people recalled where she had worn it, the photographs, the headlines, the legacy.

Richard sat quietly in the fifth row, eyes fixed on the stage. He wasn’t like the others—he wasn’t here to decorate a gallery or resell for profit. His reasons were far more personal... and political.

Then came Lot 52.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer began, "up next is a navy blue velvet gown designed by Victor Edelstein. Famously worn by the Princess of Wales during a state dinner at the White House in 1985, where she danced with actor John Travolta."

A quiet murmur rippled through the room. Even seasoned bidders straightened in their chairs. This dress was iconic—practically royal myth.

"We’ll begin the bidding at £100,000."

Hands went up immediately.

"One-fifty. Two hundred. Two-fifty. Three hundred..."

The numbers climbed quickly. A bidder from Qatar raised his paddle. A woman from Los Angeles countered. Someone from Sotheby’s placed a quiet bid by phone.

Richard stayed silent until the price crossed £1.2 million.

Then, calmly, he raised his hand.

"One point five million from gentleman in Row Five," the auctioneer called.

All eyes turned.

"One point six. One point seven..."

Richard’s expression didn’t change.

"One point nine... do I hear two million?"

The room held its breath.

Richard lifted his paddle again.

"Two million pounds. Bidder in Row Five."

A dramatic pause. Silence. The Qatari gentleman hesitated. The phone bidder stalled. Then the gavel slammed down with a final echo.

"Sold, for two million pounds."

Richard exhaled quietly.

He had secured the dress—but more than that, he had fulfilled Earl Spencer’s quiet request.

After winning the Victor Edelstein velvet gown for £2 million, Richard didn’t stop. He remained in his seat, calm and focused.

"Up next: Lot 58. A Catherine Walker ice-blue chiffon evening gown, worn by Princess Diana during a state visit to France in 1994..."

Without hesitation, Richard raised his paddle again.

"Starting at £80,000..."

Before anyone else could react, Richard called out a bid of £300,000.

Murmurs rippled through the room.

By the end of the evening, Richard had spent over £5 million, securing multiple gowns that once belonged to the beloved princess.

After the final gavel struck and the last lot was claimed, the grandeur of the evening shifted.

The air, once charged with competitive tension, gave way to a refined calm as guests rose from their seats and filtered into the adjoining reception hall. Soft classical music drifted from a string quartet in the corner, while crystal glasses clinked as servers moved gracefully through the crowd with silver trays of champagne and delicacies.

The social hour had begun.

To the sound of soft music, many men and women were dancing gracefully in the hall.

In this kind of dance, the most popular dance was naturally the waltz.

Richard, naturally, felt out of place. Of the sixty or so guests present, most were aristocrats or individuals long accustomed to such gatherings—the kind of people who moved effortlessly through champagne conversations and subtle status games.

Truth be told, this kind of social hour made him want to head home immediately. But just as he was about to slip away quietly—just as he took his first step—

"Hello, may I invite you to dance?"

Hearing the unexpected invitation, Richard turned and found himself face-to-face with a tall, elegant woman.

She had light blonde hair swept into a soft updo, a pale blue gown that shimmered under the lights, and stood nearly eye-to-eye with him—striking in both presence and poise.

"My name is Gabrielle," she introduced herself. "And I know who you are," she added with a knowing glint in her eye.

Richard was taken aback. Did she mistake him for someone else?

Still slightly confused, he could only offered a polite smile.

Miss Gabrielle’s smile deepened, and to Richard’s surprise, her next question was completely unexpected: "Then, Mr. Richard Maddox—may I ask you to dance with me?"

Hearing his full name made Richard even more confused. She had gotten it right—meaning this woman clearly already knew who he was. And what had she just asked?

Was she really inviting him to dance—someone who had absolutely no idea how to dance—unlike everyone else in this room?

"Well, to be honest, Miss—"

"You’re not going to turn me down, are you?" she interrupted playfully, raising an eyebrow.

Richard’s mouth twitched slightly. He sighed, then smiled—masking his hesitation behind practiced politeness.

"Well... of course, Miss Gabrielle. It would be my honor."

It had to be said—Gabrielle’s dancing was as elegant as it was effortless. Under her gentle guidance, Richard gradually settled into the rhythm, shifting from awkward uncertainty to a steady, confident flow.

"This is your first time dancing, isn’t it?" she asked softly.

Richard gave a small nod but remained silent.

After the dance, Gabrielle leaned in and said gently, "Just call me Ella. I’m truly honored to meet you. I’ve always heard how you built the Maddox Group from the ground up—that’s why I’ve been so curious to meet you in person."

"Are you disappointed?" Richard asked with a faint, self-deprecating smile.

"Of course not," she replied. "You lived up to your reputation. Tonight, you were the most dazzling one on the floor."

As a sign of respect for the occasion, Richard was dressed impeccably in a tailored, hand-sewn suit and crisp trousers. Combined with his naturally handsome features, he quickly caught the attention of more than a few aristocratic ladies the moment he arrived.

Although he knew her words were mostly flattery, Richard couldn’t help but appreciate the compliment—especially coming from a beautiful woman.

"And how did you recognize me?" he asked, curious.

"I recognized you the moment I saw you," Gabrielle said with a soft smile. "To be honest, I was amazed. I didn’t expect someone like you to achieve something of that scale. Even my friends at school know about you."

Richard caught the key word. "School? Then... Miss Ella, are you still studying?"

"I just graduated recently—from Oxford, actually," she replied. "I’m on a short holiday now. I came here today with my sister to represent my father at this banquet—he had some urgent business to attend to. But I have a feeling he’ll soon appoint me as one of the managing directors in his company."

Richard wasn’t surprised. In wealthy families, it was common for business to be passed down through the generations—it was practically in their blood.

"I’ll be taking over one of the publishing companies he owns," she added with a touch of pride.

But what she said next made Richard perk up with genuine interest.

"Oh, a publishing company? Would you mind if I asked the name of it?"

The publishing industry was entering a period of dramatic transformation. While print media still held dominant sway, early warning signs were beginning to appear on the horizon: the rise of 24-hour cable news, increasing internet access, and growing whispers in media circles about "online news portals."

Advertising revenue—the lifeblood of print—was beginning to fragment as new digital formats loomed. Still, the industry was only in the early stages of preparing for digital expansion, as few truly understood how online media could be monetized. For the time being, traditional print remained the dominant force in global publishing.

Major newspapers such as The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Times (UK), and The Wall Street Journal continued to wield enormous political and cultural influence. Glossy magazines like Vogue, Time, Newsweek, and Vanity Fair

remained central to elite discourse and mainstream tastes alike.

In the UK, tabloids were at the height of their power. Paparazzi culture was aggressive—often ruthless—and the tabloids frequently played a significant political role, typically backing the Conservative Party

"Oh, my father is currently the owner of a company named News International," Gabrielle said casually, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"..."

Richard’s ear twitched the moment she spoke.

"Uhmm, Miss Ella... may I call you that? And—pardon me—may I ask the name of your father?"

"My father?" she replied, eyes bright with a hint of curiosity. "His name is Rupert Murdoch."

"..."

Richard went completely silent.

Murdoch.

Of all the names she could have said.

The woman in front of him was the daughter of the very man whose media empire had made his life difficult—not once, but repeatedly, especally The Sun.

Did she really not know about the feud between her father’s company and mine? Or is she pretending not to know?

He glanced at her again.

Her head tilted ever so slightly, her eyes searching his with the kind of innocent candor that didn’t seem faked.

’If she’s acting... then she deserves an Oscar, maybe even a lifetime achievement award,’ Richard thought grimly.

He sighed quietly, his instinct telling him to retreat—to excuse himself and walk away before this conversation wandered into dangerous territory.

But then she spoke again.

"My father plans to place me at The Sun, actually," she said lightly. "I hear it’s one of the largest papers in the country. I’ll probably start there after summer. Kind of exciting, to be honest."

"..."

’Bloody hell!’ Richard screamed inwardly.

"I suppose I should’ve guessed," Richard said, offering a wry smile. "You carry yourself like someone born into a newsroom."

Gabrielle laughed. "I grew up surrounded by editors, deadlines, and front-page headlines. Now that I’ve just finished at Oxford, my father wants me to start learning the ropes more seriously. I’ll be joining one of the magazine divisions as a managing director soon."

"Well then, Miss Ella... perhaps we’ll be seeing more of each other after all."

Her eyes sparkled, mistaking his meaning. "I’d like that."

’We’ll see,’ Richard thought. ’Let’s see just how much the daughter knows about the kingdom she’s about to inherit.’